


Dance me to the Future

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [17]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, PWP, elves like to dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Feast in Minas Tirith, just after Legolas and Gimli have become lovers, gives Legolas a chance to show how elves dance.......</p><p>(Sequel episode to Just Maybe, fits into Red Star Rising, although hopefully most of it works if you haven't read those.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance me to the Future

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hope91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope91/gifts), [TheDisreputableDog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDisreputableDog/gifts).



> Title from a Leonard Cohen song - song not particularly appropriate, but the title is.
> 
> Its the scene I thought I wouldn't/couldn't write, until someone asked. And then - well, I'm not sure it turned out the way they hoped, not sure its what I expected, but - here we are. I hope someone likes it!

Right. Here is the door to the banquet hall. 

Open it, Gimli.

Come on.

How hard can it sodding be?

Coward.

He is not your king. What does it bloody matter what he says, what he thinks? 

Your king would find it funny. He asked if you had ruffled this prince’s hair. He would be pleased to know how right he was.

I hope.

Oh fuck.

Come on. Aragorn is your friend. Legolas’ friend too. 

He may not be overly approving – but what can he do? What can he say?

Bloody Droin, I think, unreasonably. I would prefer not to have been warned of this.

And I hesitate again.

“Gimli? Melethron-nin? Is – is there something wrong? Are – are you regretting this?” his voice is so quiet, so small, I almost do not recognise it is my warrior-prince speaking. 

I look at him, his beautiful hair in my braids, my beads holding the pattern, his eyes looking at me for reassurance, his hand reaching out and then – then I see him pull it back, his eyes drop, and he bites his lip.

Oh shit. Oh my poor love.

Gimli, what would your parents say to see you scare him so? This is no way to treat your One.

I take his hand, and hold it tight. Fuck them, I think, fuck all of the Men in there. My dwarves will not mind, they will find it funny – Droin has assured me there will be no anger there. His elves – I do not know, but he doesn’t seem to expect a problem. So – what am I worried about?

Fucks sake, Gimli, if you can’t do this, you are no true dwarf. 

“Come on, love,” I say, “it – it is just that I do not like being stared at. At least, not in this way. Come on, Thranduilion, show them how it is.”

He smiles at me, and the sun comes out.

And I wonder how I could even consider anyone else’s opinion.

 

 

Well, I think, as this Caradhil talks away, as elves do, that could have been worse. 

Clearly all the bloody elves and dwarves had been primed, knew what to expect, how to react. Thank Mahal for my cousin – and this Caradhil, I suppose.

Well, all his elves. Those other – Arwen’s elves – looked a bit shocked. And the Men. 

And the king.

That hurts, actually.

All those weeks, all those days, travelling, fighting, all those words of friendship.

And now – now he is shocked. Now he is concerned for the dignity of his palace. For the customs of his people.

As though the customs of his people should be more to us than those of our own.

Not as though he is truly in a position to judge, I’d’ve thought. He has his elf in his bed – why would he grudge me mine?

Is Droin right? Is it that Gondor does not recognise the love of warriors? 

Explains a lot about Boromir.

But – Aragorn – he did not seem to disapprove of my bedding Rohirrim. 

Is it that he sees only politics? Only the possible disapproval of the bastard elf-king Thranduil? 

Is it that he thinks I should not seduce an elf? That I will leave my Legolas, hurt him, that he will not die but grieve forever?

It is his choice, I think. Not yours.

Oh well.

We need not stay here long.

Bloody Men.

At least the food is good. I am bloody hungry. 

Can’t think why, after two days in bed.

Mostly in bed. 

Although the balcony was nice too.

He likes the stars. Not that he was looking at them.

Two days of my elf.

Shagging.

Elf is exhausting.

And wonderful. 

 

 

Oh sweet Mahal, does this Caradhil never shut the fuck up?

 

 

Will this interminable feast not end? Durin’s cock, Aragorn, I think, you may have had more than half a year of your elf, but I have not. Want him again. Can feel his warmth next to me, can hear his song, his voice as he talks to Droin, his hand is so close, I could reach out and take it. 

That’s an idea.

I do not take his hand. I put my hand on his thigh, under the table, and oh he feels so good. So good to know I can do this, that he is mine, that at last, at last, I have the right to touch him.

His ear – the one I can see – has gone pink. 

His voice stutters a bit.

I do not do anything very much. I just keep my hand there, stroking a little, squeezing. 

Blush spreading down his neck now. 

His hands, I notice, are unsteady. 

Mahal, but he is sweet.

Sadly I need my hand again. 

But I can press my leg against his. And that seems to have a similar effect.

 

 

Oh fuck. 

Now there is dancing. 

Bloody elves.

Do none of them want to go to bed?

Well, no. I suppose not. They are not married, any of them, and they do not sleep.

Bloody elves.

 

 

Oh. My elf is going to dance.

I raise my brows at him, as he gets up, to join his friends.

“What sort of dancing is this going to be?” I ask.

He smiles at me, and I wonder what he is up to. That is a mischievous smile if ever I saw one. 

“Oh, just Silvan dances,” he answers, and I see him exchange a look with Caradhil, “just Silvan dances. Watch.”

Caradhil does not dance. But he does at least stop bloody talking.

There are a lot of them – well – twenty, I suppose, all dancing. And – oh. This is Silvan dancing is it?

Certainly different to – Noldor – I think – that stately pacing and circling I have seen before. 

More – energetic – than the first night they arrived. Perhaps they were tired then, from journeying. 

Perhaps they were restrained by the grief of their prince.

Their foolish prince, hurt by the braids in my hair that were for him, that were supposed to tell him what he needed to know. The braids that in his self-doubt told him I had wed another.

The braids that had him draw back, pull away from me, so cold, so elven that I understood him to care nothing for me.

He definitely looks better now.

Glows.

Dances.

This is more like the dance I saw in Edoras.

But – faster. Wilder.

Not just things from around the hall to avoid, they are using knives. Fuck. They are using knives as part of their dance. Twirling them, throwing them, almost – almost juggling with them, but these are no hucksters at a fair, these are warriors, all of them know what these knives can do – as do I – all of them are deadly. Fuck. Bloody elves. 

And of them all, of them all, my Legolas is the centre, the one round whom the knives fly fastest, the only blond, the one who shines, the one who is never still, never has a chance to cover a miss – the one who never misses, the one who is perfect, the one who all eyes follow. My elf. Mine. It is like watching him fight – only I never could watch him fight, because I was always too busy fighting.

Fuck.

He is fast, beautiful. Dangerous.

Mine.

The Menfolk are in awe. 

I am not sure what the Noldor think.

 

 

As they dance, this – Caradhil – leans to me, and speaks. Again. He has been speaking all bloody evening, but – this is different. 

His voice changes, he sounds – harder. Older. More dangerous. 

No longer a charming woodland elf.  
“My prince is much to me. To all of us here. If you hurt him, we will find you, and we will make you pay. I do not know, I do not wish to know, what you did to him that he came home to us like to die. But I tell you now, if you do that to him again, it is you that will die. If we have to kill all your people, lay waste to your lands – we will do this.” 

Fuck. 

For a moment I don’t know whether to hit him, as I long to, for his presumption of rights over my elf, for the insult to my care, or – laugh at the thought of any needing to defend my love. My love who I have seen on a battlefield, taking down orcs, and singing with joy as he fights. My love who I saw scale and kill an oliphaunt – and all its crew, not that I am going to ever admit they count as individuals. My love, who is the most daring, fierce warrior, it has been my pleasure to meet.

But I look at this elf, and I see he means it. 

And I wonder what he knows of my Legolas that I do not.

I hear his words, and I think – like to die? This winter? 

Shit.

Did I really do that?

Yes, I think, I saw him when he arrived here. 

I did that.

I nearly made him fade.

You bastard, Gimli.

But – I did not know. He did not tell me how it was.

I thought – I thought I had stopped where it was safe. I thought – I thought he loved me not.

I thought that like any elf in a tale, he had taken my heart and given nothing in return. Used me. Let me braid him, enchanted me, made me love him, and then left me. 

I too, hurt, this long winter. My heart ached, my world seemed empty. I may be a dwarf, I may not have been like to fade – I have work to do, I have value without love – but – I hurt too.

He gave me no sign, he rode away, he did not look back, he – he never spoke, never tried to claim me.

I was desolate too. So empty that I thought my heart was returned to the stone of which dwarves are made.

My cousin, my cousin who watched me, who understood without words, whose own grief is his ever-present companion, my cousin who planned our reunion, my cousin is not threatening my beloved elf.

And I wonder what this – Caradhil – knows of my Legolas that I do not, that he is so sure my warrior needs protecting, that he sees him as so vulnerable.

“Caradhil,” I say, “your prince is my One. Rather than hurt him, I would die a hundred times, I swear to you. But – I will hurt him. One day, I will die. And there will be no comfort for him, save following me. I cannot change this. If I could release him, I would. I cannot.” 

I stop, for the words hurt as I say them, how can I repay his courage, his love? How can I deserve this?

Then I look at this elf, who is so sure he has the right to question me as though he were my love’s father and my love some shy maiden, and I think – what gives you the right? I think of what my love has told me of his life – and so much is between the words he says, so used he has grown to telling himself his story in a way that hurts not, and I ask this – Caradhil,

“But – if he means so much to you – where were you when he was an elfling? Where were you all the days of his life he was uncombed? Where were you all the times his father, your precious king, turned away from him? Answer me that, my fine elf.”

He has an answer.

Of course he does. He is an elf.

Although, I think, as I listen, perhaps – perhaps – this elf has been good to my love. Perhaps he has tried.

Certainly, my love is not easy to help. He is proud, he conceals his hurt.

Perhaps this Caradhil is not a would-be lover. Perhaps – perhaps he is the brother my love should have had.

We both know we must reach agreement. 

We both know we are bound to each other – at least for a while.

More bloody elves.

Gimli, what have you let yourself in for? I wonder.

 

 

But – oh shit. This is a new dance. And as I watch, I wonder no longer. 

The knives have been put away now.

The other elves are – not stopping but – stepping back. My elf, my elf is centre. This is a dance for him, they are merely – scenery.

Fuck.

My elf, my love, my Legolas – is amazing.

Fuck.

This dance, this dance is slow. Sensual. Every move, every flicker of skin perfect, hinting, teasing, not revealing, not giving but – daring. Asking. 

I have never watched a dance so calculated to arouse.

You would think he had trained in a brothel.

Not – I hasten to add – that I have ever been in such a place. I have never seen the need. The day I cannot find willing company for my bed, I have always said, is the day I sleep alone.

But. 

Shit.

This elf – this elf knew nothing of – anything – as far as I can make out, until I got hold of him. 

I know he is a fast learner, I have spent two days benefiting from it, but – fuck.

How does he know to do that?

To move like that?

To – oh fuck – to – I have not the words.

How?

Who taught him this?

When?

Why?

How does any – unmarried – elf know to do this?

Perhaps they are not all unmarried, I think, and I wonder whether to ask this Caradhil. 

Then I think – he is not married. 

And – is that really a conversation I want to have?

Perhaps I will wait and ask my Legolas.

Yes. He will probably go a most endearing shade of pink.

But – fuck.

Is it possible to do that? To bend like that?

He is looking at me, not all the time, but a lot of the time. This dance is for me.

Fuck.

I am getting ideas. Ideas unsuitable for such a place, such a gathering.

Fuck.

I suspect my dwarves are a bit more understanding now.

Caradhil leans to me again, and says, quietly,  
“This, this is a courtship dance. Only Silvans dance so. The Noldor in this hall are not happy.”

I look at him for a second,  
“What?” I say.

“Keep looking at my prince,” he hisses, “I said, the Noldor are not happy. Bloody hypocrites.”

I did not know elves swore.

I keep looking at my love, as I am told to do, but I cannot help asking,  
“Why hypocrites?”

He – snorts – and says,  
“Noldor can court more than once. They can love twice. Sometimes. So it is said. Yet they look down on us for these dances,” and from the corner of my eye, I see his nose twitch, “although I do not see any of them leaving.”

True enough, they are not.

I am aware that the other elves dancing, for some are still dancing, are now – merely a backdrop. My elf is central, my elf is – showing off. Not that I shall tell him I used those words.

Fuck.

Sweet Mahal.

No-one, elf or not, should be able to move like that.

Oh fuck.

I am not going to be able to get up from behind this table. I am hard as mithril. I want him so. 

Fuck.

I have spent the last two days – and nights – fucking him. I thought even I was in need of rest, dwarf though I am, long though I have waited.

Then I see this –and I am not.

My companion speaks again, he is not a happy elf,  
“Bloody Noldor,” he says, and I find I may learn to like this elf, “they are all covering their ears.”

What?

What the fuck?

Their ears?

“I – what do you mean? Their eyes surely?” I ask, but no.

“No, their ears. They – they show they do not wish to be – I do not know the word – they do not wish to show – their – interest? Appreciation? They disapprove.” I realise he means they do not wish to show their arousal, their ears flushing. And I think it is a good thing they do not. My elf. He huffs again, “I suppose they dance only in their bedchambers.”

Oh shit.

The thought of this dance in my bedchamber – is not helping my – rather hard problem. 

I swallow, trying to control myself. 

Fuck, Legolas, I think. I want you, upstairs, naked, right now. Fuck Legolas, in fact. Want. 

Suddenly I realise my love is looking at me, and looking worried, I don’t know why.

Caradhil sees his face, and looks at me also.  
“My lord,” he says, “your ears. Your ears are covered by your hair. You – please – for my prince – can you – if it is not against your custom – can you push your hair back, show your ears?”

What?

Bloody mad elves.

I do as he asks though. And see my love’s face light up.

“Why?” I ask, sidelong, “what have I just agreed to?”

He laughs,  
“Nothing I think you will mind. It – usually – it signifies you would be happy for his father to talk to yours. I think – in this case – we can assume he will talk to you.”

And I bite my lip against my laughter.  
“Well, yes. I do not think my father would wish to hear the words his father would probably wish to say, and – surely we are both a bit old for our fathers to speak for us,” I pause, awestruck again by my most glorious elf, “but – is it not a little late for talk of courting? As I understood it, we are bound by your custom.”

And it takes me a minute to notice the silence. I am too busy watching my love, because – oh fuck. I am lost in desire.

But the cold chill from next to me, the sudden – martial note to the song – warns me this Caradhil is not happy.

Bloody elves.

“What?” I ask, “what now?”

“By our custom. You said by our customs. What of yours, dwarf? Are you not bound? Your cousin lead me to believe you were – that my prince might be safe with you?” he is sounding angry and dangerous again – and I am beginning to wonder about this elf. Is this really as innocent as my love thinks? 

This is sounding more like a rejected lover, more like one who has hoped for more, than a defensive friend.

Fuck off, I think. My elf. Mine.

And I know myself to be as jealous and possessive as any dwarf in a tale.

As the Arkenstone to Thorin, is my Legolas to me.

I would see all the kingdoms of this world in ruin before I would give him up.

And I did not know I had that streak of madness in me.

“Safe?” I ask, “in what way, safe? He is a warrior, a fighter, why do you speak of safe?” but that is not fair. I can see his fist clench from the corner of my eye, and I relent, “of course he is bloody safe. If by that you mean I will not leave him, I will not see him with another, he will not see me with another. Fucks sake, elf. He is mine. I said your customs, because this bloody dancing is your custom. By mine, we are bound. Look at his hair, look at my hair. Do not tell me you cannot read the language of braids.”

He bows his head in acknowledgement, and I add,  
“Fucks sake, elf. I told you. He is my One.”

There is silence between us.

At last, this bloody Caradhil has shut the fuck up.

The dance has grown faster and wilder and – and I did not think this possible – more – more explicit – is the only word I can use. I remember him saying he danced for my eyes in Edoras, and I saw him not – and I think – I bloody did see him. He was – enough to send me out of my mind with lust – hence the rider. Whoever he was.

Had he danced like this – I do not know what I would have thought. 

No, Gimli, you do know. You would have believed those twins of Rivendell, believed that this was no elf-who-does-not-fuck. Believed this was ‘a wood-elf on heat’, one who would ‘go well in bed’. Which he certainly does. But – then – then – he did not know.

How does he know to dance like this?

How?

Fuck.

But – elves – he said – they only – pair – fuck – for elflings. So – how does he know to move like that?

I would be very surprised to hear that is what lady-elves want from their lovers.

I wonder if – if my love is naive even for an elf. If other elves do not always tell the prince exactly how they live their lives.

Not that it matters.

Except – fuck. He looks good. Oh fuck.

I dare a sidelong look at my cousin, and see he is grinning, as are all my dwarves. 

They know me too well.

At my elbow, I can sense this Caradhil twitching. What now?

“Oh, Valar,” he says, in disgust I think, “bloody Noldor. Oh fuck you, dark-haired bastards.”

I look to see what has upset him, and realise,  
“Is it that they are leaving the hall?” I ask.

“Yes. Very pointedly,” he replies, and I refrain from the obvious comment about ears.

A pair of them stop by his chair, and speak – in Sindarin, I assume – and I suspect it is a good thing they do not wait to hear Caradhil’s answer.

“What?” I ask, for although I am confident he was swearing, my Sindarin is – well – I know only the words my love uses in bed. And I do not think they are much help here.

I must learn some, I think. I do not wish to be easily talked in front of.

“They – apparently – feel my prince – is not behaving in a princely fashion. That – I – I – should stop him. That – this is unseemly in front of the queen. That – oh sweet fuck – that they will write to my King.”

He swears – as though he has learnt the words without any idea of their meaning – they are just a way of showing anger, I notice. 

“It is easier to be a dwarf,” I answer, “none care what we do. None but our own,” then I pause, “actually, no. Noldor disapprove of us too. Always.”

I see a faint smile, and I cannot but add,  
“As does your king, I think.”

He sighs,  
“Indeed. And I suspect that as I have had to break the news to my group, I also will have to break it to my King. But – enough. Tonight – tonight, I think my prince is joyful. I think – he is most seemly. I think – I could not stop him if I tried.”

I laugh,  
“No. Besides – the queen is married these seven months. I doubt the pleasures of the bedroom are a mystery to her.” Although, I realise, as his ears flush, they are to you, aren’t they?

But – the dance is getting – even more.

The music is faster than ever now, and I – I cannot think. I can only watch him.

Fuck.

Oh my elf, my Legolas.

Caradhil suddenly glances sideways at me, and says, fast,  
“Dwarf, push your chair back from the table. Now. Do it.”

His tone of command is such, that I do. I am not sure why, and as I realise I have obeyed him, I am horrified. But – he is right.

The music ends, and – suddenly – I have a lapful of elf.

Oh Mahal.

Please. 

He is so sweet and hot in my hands, he is so – delicious, as he rubs his head against me, burrowing into my beard, and oh fuck. No. Legolas, do not do this. He sits astride me, he must be able to feel how hard I am, and it is as though he still does not understand. 

He wriggles.

Oh fuck.

His elves are chattering and laughing – and I realise they have no idea.

My dwarves – can see exactly the state I am in.

They are laughing too. I suspect they are drunk, and it is not at all impossible that there will be food-throwing before long. Oh fuck, Aragorn will love that.

But – of all of them – it is my sweet, quiet, little cousin who shouts out,  
“Give him a kiss, Gimli. Properly.”

And then there is a chorus of laughs, and whistles and cheers.

Some from the elves, I notice.

Not from the Men.

But – I am too busy taking my cousin’s advice to care.

 

 

And, oh, my Legolas. He tastes so sweet, he is mine, he clings, he wants, oh Durin help me. 

I know I should pull back, I should – put him down. I should – be acting as the dwarf-lord I am supposed to be.

This should be a decorous kiss. Passionate, perhaps, but – decorous.

It is not.

His hands, his hands are in my hair, pulling me closer, clutching at me as though he will never let go. His mouth is on mine, and you would think he had not seen me for – a year – not that he has only left my side to dance for me. He presses his whole gorgeous lean body against me, he grinds himself down into my lap, and I can feel he is nearly as hard as I am, as he whimpers into my mouth, needing me so.

And I? – I have one hand reaching round his head, my fingers threaded through his wonderful hair, stroking his ear, while my other hand, oh my other hand is on his arse, enjoying the tightness, kneading at his muscle, and rubbing my fingertips into his crack, searching for that sweet, secret opening that I want, oh how I want, to be in.

He loves it. He holds on with his thighs, and – fuck – perhaps there is a point to all this bloody horse-riding, I think, he is so strong, as he moves against me, rubbing himself on me, and oh fuck, it feels so good.

“Mahumb, Gimli, stop it!” My cousin must really be cross, I think hazily, to use Khuzdul in front of elves and Men, “stop it! For the love of Mahal, stop. This king is not happy. Put your bloody elf down. Now.”

And I can hear some urgent Sindarin coming from the other side of me.

Somehow we manage to separate, and my love slips to the chair beside me. I wonder if I look as mussed up as he does.

I do not really care.

Our hands stay entwined, his fingers moving idly across my palm, as my grip encircles his wrist. With our other hand, we each take our cup, and pretend to drink – at least, he may be thirsty, after that dance, I – I am just grateful there is little left in mine, for otherwise it would spill, my hand shakes so.

There is still Sindarin and Khuzdul pouring over us, we are in disgrace, we have behaved badly. The king is cross, the Men are horrified, what are the chances of being paid fair value for our work now, and I do not know what else Caradhil is saying. But I look along the hall, and I see – elves and dwarves laughing, uniting against these foolish Men, I see a king whose resigned eyes belie his strict face, and – I see a queen who clearly finds the whole show most amusing.

We sit, and let Droin and Caradhil talk until they run out of words, without bothering to answer.

And then, and then, my love, who I thought was so shy and innocent, looks at me, and says,  
“Gimli, elvellon, I find – I have feasted enough. I am tired,” he raises one brow, “I would go to my chamber – but – I fear I know not the way, distracted as I was when first I was led there. Take me?”

And by the look in his eye, he is well-aware of his ambiguity.

 

 

I have no idea how we get out of the hall. I assume we are not overly indiscreet, but – all I can think of is fucking my elf again. And I don’t think he is in any better state.

Aragorn, I think, you had better remember what you owe us. We are collecting on it.

It seems he was serious – he has no idea how to find our rooms – our room. 

“Are you always this daft?” I ask, “I thought elves were supposed to be wise?”

“Possibly,” he breathes, “but we are also supposed to be patient, and – and chaste. I am neither for you. So – master dwarf – I suggest you find our bloody room – and the bed in it – quickly. Or I shall be shocking the people of Gondor even more this night.”

I laugh, and notice he is learning to swear, even as I steer him by the shortest route,  
“You are a very, very naughty elf. I am not sure I should not be cross with you. You have behaved disgracefully, you have aroused lust in – I am not sure how many, but a lot of those at that feast, you have made me jealous showing yourself to others, you have shocked all the nice Noldor, horrified the people of Gondor, and now, now you are tormenting me with the sight of you. I should make you beg forgiveness. Or punish you.”

And I realise again, just how naive he is, as he turns in distress, real distress, and eyes wide, says.  
“No, no, I am not tormenting you, how can you say so? I – you would not really be cross? Please?”

“Oh you daft sodding elf. No. I am teasing.” Mostly. Although – a small part of me wonders. I open the door, and hustle him in, “now, stop teasing me, and deliver on your promises. For that dance was a promise, if ever I saw one,” Which reminds me to ask, “and where the sweet fuck did you learn to dance like that? What of all this ‘elves know nothing’ – someone knows something to have taught you to move like that?”

He laughs, no, he bloody giggles – Durin’s great balls, I can hardly believe it – my warrior is giggling – and holding onto me to keep himself from falling as he kisses me,  
“Oh Gimli, Gimli-nin, you do sound jealous. No-one taught me to ‘move like that’ as you put it. No-one but you, melethron. I am an elf. There was music, and I think only of you, and what pleases you – so – so I move like that,” he shrugs, seeing my blank face – that was surely practiced? – and adds, “there is much you do not yet know of elves I think.”

“Is there indeed?” I say, and I reach for him, pulling him down to me by his braids, claiming his mouth with my own, and as he clings, as he melts into me, I unlace him with my other hand, holding him still by his hair. I reach round, and work my hand inside his leggings, and oh my sweet elf, he is making those little whimpering sounds again, which I take for approval, so, bent forwards as he is to kiss me, with no preparation, no oil, I plunge one finger where I have wanted to be for so long, straight into him, into his warm tightness, hard and fast.

And oh, fucking Durin, he is so ready, so needy, he clings tighter than ever, as though his legs are weak, he gasps into me, and I – I am so hard from the feel of him, from the way he moans as I stroke that sweet, sweet spot inside him. I must pull back to breathe, and also so I can hear those wonderful noises better – and if anyone else – everyone else – in the palace can also hear my sweet pleasured elf, that is fine with me. 

He leans his head against my shoulder, still whimpering, still holding me, and I turn my mouth to his pretty, pointed ear, and whisper, as I lick it, bringing even more lovely sounds from him,  
“But, ghivashel, there is much I do know of elves, isn’t there? Of my elf. I know where to touch you, where to kiss you, how to hold you, don’t I? I know your needs, your desires better than you do, oh my pretty elf. I think I know every part of you by now, every place on and in your sweet body, because you are mine, aren’t you?” and I add a second finger to the first, and he – he can’t form words, I’m not even sure he is thinking clearly anymore, as he cries out, his body responding to my words as much as to my touch.

After a long moment, I stop moving my fingers. I hold quite still, ghosting my mouth over his ear, listening to his breathing, his song, as he tries to make sense of his thoughts. 

“Well,” I say, “am I right?” and a part of me wonders if it is fair to tease him so, but – that is how we are. He has not stopped teasing me, I will not stop teasing him. Just – it is different now. Much more fun.

“Yes,” he manages at last, “yes, you are right. You know much, you know all of me. Please, please, you know, you know what I want. Love me. Please. Fuck me again. I need – I need to know you love me,” he hesitates a moment, searching for words I think, and then, “unless – is it that you want me to kneel – you want my mouth?”

I look at his face, beautiful before me, his eyes, so deep I could drown in them, his mouth, so perfect, so clever, so – skilled – oh Mahal, so skilled after so little practice – and I say,  
“No. I would rather fuck you. But – only if – if you are sure? I don’t want to hurt you. We,” I pause, wondering how to say it, “we have had quite an energetic couple of days – and it is new to you. Are you not sore?”

He moves his hips in a way I think should be illegal, a way I certainly do not wish to see before any others, and smiles that smile, that mischievous, I-am-no-ethereal-elf-I-am-a-Silvan smile, and says,  
“Do I feel anything but sure to you?” and he reaches with his hands, and his tunic is on the floor, and he is working at the laces and buckles on my clothes, as he says, “you could help, meleth-nin, I have only two hands, I cannot use my teeth, and – and you have an excessive number of fastenings, you – dwarf.”

I laugh, and reclaim the use of my hand, even though he gives a sad little groan as I do, and it is not long before we are both stripped, and I am following him to the bed, admiring the shape of his arse, and the way he walks, as I have done so many times – but – so much better he looks without those bloody leggings. He leans forward, and I realise what he is expecting, but,  
“No,” I am definite about this, lovely as his arse is to look at, “on your back. I want to see your face. I want you to look at me, want your hands to hold me to you.”

His breath hitches, as he turns and oh, he is beautiful spread out before me, ready, and waiting, and I – I can’t stop to look for long, lovely though the sight is, because I am desperate now, I need, oh I need, and I am in him, and he gives that little sigh that means all is well with the world as I thrust inside, in where I want to be, home.

“Love you,” I say, because I do, and I think he needs to hear it over and over, however excessive it may seem, “love you, my elf, my Legolas. Love you. Always.”

“Yes, oh Gimli, yes, whenever you want. I love you so. I am yours, please do not ever stop loving me, having me, I need you, need to know you love me,” and something in his words worries me for a second, so that I stop moving, and try to think.  
“You do know I mean it, even – even when we are not – like this? Don’t you?”

“Yes, but – you said – you said you needed this to know I love you – so – “ he looks away, and I wince inside, at how stupid my words have been.

“No, no, I didn’t mean – I love you – always – whatever –“ I am trying to be coherent, but the heat, the tightness of him is not helping. And then – then – the bloody pointy-eared elf bastard – I see he bites his lip, and I realise he is trying not to laugh, as he says,  
“Gimli, you are wonderful when you try to make sense, when you try to be romantic. I may be daft, but I know you love me. At last, I do know it. And,” he gasps a bit as I move again, “and that you find me beautiful when I dance.”

I stop and look down at him, resting my weight on his thighs, splayed out as they are, and oh the strength of him, he does not even seem to notice,  
“When you dance? Yes. But – right now – more beautiful than ever,” you gorgeous teasing sod, but – his eyes hold a real question this time, and I wonder what effect the answer would have, so, “oh if any could see you now, my princeling, now you are truly beautiful. Your hair in my braids, wearing my beads, your eyes looking up at me, so wide, so full of desire, your mouth, breathing hard, ready to make all those sweet sounds, no elven control left, your pretty ears twitching and flushing, wanting my hands, my tongue, oh you are lovely. And – your chest heaving with need, your slim body so strong, your arms holding me, your hands clutching as though you will never let go, your legs so wide for me, oh look at you, stretched round my cock, taking me into you, letting me fuck you, so tight, so desperate, so mine, and you are so hard, so ready to come just from feeling me in you, so ready to touch, to make your eyelids flutter as your hips move beyond your control – I have never seen anything so wonderful.”

And his face flushes with pleasure at my words, at my praise, but – I am almost lost in sensation, in looking at him – for every word is true. I move again, and as I move, every thrust is angled for his delight, and he moans, over and over, my name on his lips, my name the only word he can remember as his voice rises higher and higher, as he clings to me, his legs wrapping round my waist, so strong, so strong he is. He arches under me, his head thrown back, his neck taut, and I lean down as he brings his head up and take his ear in my mouth, and that is the last push he needs, he is screaming again, oh Mahal this elf is the noisiest creature ever. But – I do not care – he sounds so good, he feels so good as he writhes under me, as he clenches round me, as he screams my name, as he comes and takes me with him in something that is beyond all the nameless fucks, all the friendly lays I have ever had into something – something so deep, so wonderful that I know it is worth any cost, any awkwardness, any rebukes from others.

Mine. My elf. My love. My One, my Legolas.

Forever.

Shit, I sound soppy, I think, as I return to myself. Don’t say any of that aloud, Gimli. You will never hear the end of it.

But – I do so love this elf of mine. I do feel as though I am home at last, and I did not know this need was in me.

Bloody knackered now though.

I realise I have collapsed on top of him, and although he is not complaining, this is not going to be comfortable for either of us for long, so I gently pull out, thinking I never did find the oil – my poor elf will need some tenderness later. Doesn’t seem to be complaining now though, as I lie next to him, watching his face, stroking his hand, wondering what next. 

 

 

Next, he turns into my embrace, and – my elf is actually sleepy. So, I think, it is possible. Finally.

“Ammelin gi,” I say, hoping that is right, hoping I have remembered the words for him. He smiles, and I think, even if I am not quite right, it is close enough for now. 

“Gi melin, Gimli-nin,” he whispers, “gi melin. Gar-nin sen dui.” At least, I think that’s it. That or something very close. All his bloody elvish sounds much the same, but so beautiful when he speaks. But – although I know the first part, as I should after two days of it howled into my ears – I do not recognise the second. I flick his ear, gently, and say,  
“Westron, daft creature. Translate, please.”

He smiles into me, and without opening his eyes,  
“I asked you to hold me, hold me tonight,” and I wonder why he thinks he needs to ask, as I pull him closer than ever. His voice is drowsy, he is barely singing, just a sweet low murmur, as he rests his head on my chest, one hand curling tightly into my beard, the other reaching round to stroke my ear. 

I am not sure I like having my ear – or my beard – used as a comfort blanket. But – I cannot face the distress if I try to move him. He seems very settled.

“Love you, daft sodding elf,” I say, and I kiss his hair. Then a thought occurs to me, “You will have to teach me some of your bloody elvish,” I say, “I don’t like you and Caradhil – and all these other elves – speaking when I can’t understand.”

He laughs, sleepily,  
“Oh, what fun that will be. Again, it is not elvish – it is Sindarin. And it is, I believe, a dreadful language to learn. Too many different ways for all the words to change. Sometimes the first part of a word changes, sometimes the end. And – oftentimes – the sounds change. The sentences are ambiguous – that may be why we have a reputation for saying both no and yes. And – we, my elves and I, all speak with a Silvan accent. Not even proper Sindarin. Although at least it is no longer true Silvan. That is worse, I think, to learn. At least, not-elves never do. It is not used much now though. But – yes. I will try to teach you my tongue. Some, anyway,” and he smiles again, nuzzling into me, as he continues, “but oh, my dwarf, will you teach me any of yours? Or is that too much to ask?”

I am distracted at the mention of tongues. I thought I had taught him most of their uses, I think, but do not say. Oh my sweet elf, you have no idea what you do to me. I realise I have let the pause hang too long, but I had not thought of this obvious response, so I stumble over my words,  
“I – I suppose – some. But – you will be wise not to let many know. Or we will both be – well, just don’t bloody let on. It is not an easy language either, as I remember.” And when he looks up at me, confused, I realise he may not know, “I – we – speak Westron as a first language. Khuzdul only comes when we are old enough to appreciate our heritage, our secrets. In fact – I wonder – a wager?” I cannot resist the idea, now it is in my mind, and he is raising his brows with interest, oh my sweet competitive elf, “a wager. To see who can hold a complete conversation with – another – I suppose Droin or Caradhil – first. Yes?”

He smiles, smug as ever,  
“And I shall win,” he says, confident, “for your Khuzdul cannot be worse than my Sindarin. You do not let it change with time, as we do, you do not use it all day, every day, as we – there cannot be so much to it.”

I grin, “but, my elf, you will never understand the culture that produced it. Besides, I don’t think your pretty mouth could make the harsh sounds we like.” And, I think, I am going to find it so easy to distract you from learning.

He smiles, still smug, “and what rides on this? Honour? Or something more – tangible?”

I look at him, and I am seized with many, many ideas, oh my pretty, sweet elf, how many lessons have I for you?  
“A – forfeit. An evening. For the victor to dictate how it is spent,” and I watch him agree, no reservations, and I smile, knowing I cannot lose. “But,” I continue my earlier thought, “I wanted to ask – what the fuck does ‘eca a mitta lambetya cendellesse orcova’ mean?”

Again, I think I have that right. I am not sure, until he sits up, not asleep now,  
“What? Are you sure? Who said that? Who said that to you?”

Ah, close enough, and I see my warrior is back.

“Ah. Not nice then?” I pull him down, and hold him, “no-one said it to me, he – your – Caradhil – said it to – some Noldor.”

“Oh. Oh dear. Oh Caradhil,” he bites his lip, “why? Do you know?”

Shit. I had not thought of that.

“They – it was those bloody twins again – they were telling him to – to stop you - dancing. I gather it is not a Noldor custom? They seemed to think their sister was – should not witness it?” although why not, is beyond me.

He wriggles into me, and I think he is laughing,  
“Poor Caradhil. It is not his fault. I am – badly behaved. I was this evening. But – your face. It was worth it. You loved it. I will do it again. And again,” he pauses, and I pull him close and,

“Oh indeed you fucking will. But next time, my delicious, naughty elf, next time, you will bloody dance like that in this room. And you will dance naked as you are now. For me. Just for me,” and I see he does not really understand. How can he not, how can he still not bloody realise? He is mine. I do not want to see him dance like that in front of others. 

He shrugs,  
“Of course I will, if you wish it, but – I do not really see why you would want that of me. Surely, surely the point of such a dance is that all can see who I love, that you love and desire me? I – I know that you will not dance so for me or with me – but – but have you nothing you would do?” and as our eyes meet in another of those moments of complete confusion, we find that we still have so far to go, such a journey to understand each other. But – now, now we know what to do, and he leans his head against mine, and we smile, knowing this can be talked of another time, and as I stroke his face he continues, “But – what he said – it means go kiss – kiss – passionately – an orc. It is Quenya. I did not know Caradhil knew any. It – it is an insult. I – I am not sure what you would say to sound the same. Oh dear. They – they must have said – whatever they said – it must have been much more than he told you. Much more – plainly phrased.”

Knowing those twins, I imagine it was. But – never mind. 

“I don’t think they heard. He waited until they had walked away,” which is probably a good thing. That was a worse insult than I thought to brothers whose mother suffered as she did. It is interesting, I think, that my love does not see that – I suppose he does not know much of the love a son has for his mother. Poor bloody elf.

His thoughts have followed different paths. He turns his sweet face up to me again, and I see worry in his eyes,  
“This – us – this is not going to be easy. I love you. I – tell me you think it will be alright. Please. You – you will not – regret this?” and then, “love me again, make me know you want me, that I am safe at last?”

“Nothing is easy with you,” I say, “it never has been. It was not easy to journey with you. It was not easy to admit you could fight as well as I. It was not easy to become friends. It was not easy to know how I wanted you. It was not easy to think I had lost you. It was not easy to admit to my people we were friends, this is not much worse. Daft sodding elf, you know I love you, I need you, you are my One. But – I thought you were tired?” he is tired, I can feel he is in the way he moves, I can hear it in his song. I am tired, although I do not wish to admit it. Knackered. Again. Oh Mahal, how am I going to keep up with him? Then I realise, “I love you, I want you, you are safe. Always. Not just when I am in you, having you. Sleep now, daft elf.” And let me sleep too. And I kiss his hair again, over and over, holding him as he drifts off into whatever version of sleep elves have.

I lie, waiting for sleep to come to me, and I hold him as he asked, and I realise – I thought – I thought he was strong, I thought he was fierce. He is. In battle, there is none I would rather have beside me. I thought he was – not wise, but – full of learning. He is. In a very elf-way; he knows much of other times, older times, much of – plants. I thought he was court-trained, cunning. He is. Already he has seen things I would not have, that even my cousin has not, that we will need to think on before we come to a final agreement with Eomer. He thinks his way through politics like – well, like his father the bastard elf-king Thranduil’s son, I suppose. But – I thought all he needed from me was love. I did not know he needed this comfort, this protection, this – strength.

And for a moment it daunts me. What of me? What of the times – for I know there will be times – when I need him to hold me, comfort me? 

Gimli, I think, you are being a fool. He is your One. Whatever he needs, you will give. And when you need anything – he will try. Ask. There is no shame in asking. 

Not between us.

Oh my sweet elf, this is going to be a long journey, you and I.


End file.
